An Elf's Tale, Part 17

"Here, please, wear this—quickly, if you would."

A flutter of darkest red flitted towards Eshwlyn across the cramped expanse of the carriage, slowly descending and landing as a crimson cloak draped loosely over her outstretched hand. 

She recognized the stitching, the embroideries sewn across the hems—what it signified—every night, forced to bear the wicked smiles beneath the crimson hood. At once, the feeling of deep loathing sharped her eyes, and had only her muscles and mind been her own, she would have had the scarlet robes in the tiniest shreds, stamped hard beneath the might of her foot. 

Instead, as was implored her, Eshwlyn silently whipped the cloak around herself, letting its soft silk embrace her body whole. Wilvur smiled, pure raw fury blinding her of just how truly apologetic he looked at her.